


The Remains of the Day

by etherealApostate



Series: Gravity Fails [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gore, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: Pacifica deals with the aftermath of Dipper and Bill's most recent kill. Might flesh out a Wendy/Pacifica thing later. Brownie points if you catch the CAH reference.





	

Pacifica smoothed the lap of her pale green gown. The last guest had left (Anthony Battlefield, a real talker, unfortunately) and the gentle remains of the party lay across the ballroom.

It was time.

Pacifica braced herself for the greater mess behind the library doors, and with a clipped pace made her way to the small back door that was the hall to the hall to the washroom to the library.

Before the library’s back door, she paused and rester her hand on the handle, then pushed.

With relief, she felt a snap of the superglue between door and handle that Dipper had left as a sign. No one else had entered before her. Well done, help, she thought. They had finally paid her mind and followed one instruction at least: to leave alone the library. She should have known she could trust Claude.

When Pacifica entered, she gasped aloud. No gunshot, silenced or otherwise, could orchestrate the scene she saw before her.

“ _Dipper_ ,” she muttered in frustration. She was going to have to have the whole carpet redone! Then she reconsidered: this was much, much more likely due to that _weirdo_ Bill’s influence.

Ugh. Pacifica closed the door behind herself, then realized she wasn’t quite sure why she’d done that.

 _What had they done?_ She thought. Then: _Well, for starters, disemboweled the little shit, and_ – as she circled around – _oh god what is that in his mouth._

Pacifica’s curiosity got the best of her. Hiking up her skirt to keep it clear of the marsh of blood that had once been her favorite carpet, she knelt by Sanders’ disfigured head. The big-dipper symbol caught her eye, and then she figured out what the thing in his mouth was.

Pacifica threw up.

The warm remains of champagne and various bits of French cuisine flew from her mouth and landed over the little skin intact on Sanders’ chest. She rocked back onto her heels, hugging herself.

God, it had been so long since she’d vomited.

She sat there for a while, and then, in one decisive movement, brought her right hand to her mouth and plunged two fingers back to her throat. She ejected another wave of vomit onto the carpet, the blood, the cold corpse before her.

 _Ruined, ruined, RUINED!_ It was all done for, all completely shit. She pushed back into her throat again and let the rising tide of vomit serve as her own ablution.

Ablution, she knew, could not, should not, be a clean thing for her. No, she was a decidedly bad person, and her own cleansing would only come through a disgorgement of her own disgusting matter.

After three more fruitless heaves, Pacifica gurgled  and coughed for a moment. She took in the scene before her.

Why not, she thought, and leaned forward. She reached into the dead man’s mouth and pried out the inert slab of flesh that had functioned as a heart not so many hours before.

Idly, not worrying now about the blood and bile that stained her dress-front, Pacifica turned the heart in her hands. _Sick fucks. They ate part of it_.

She suddenly remembered her favorite tutor, Clement – the one that had made her parents swear off tutors for her and go fully to homeschooling. A little shudder traveled her spine.

She remembered the one time he had made her dissect a pig. No one else could have been able to coax her into doing it.

She remembered the rubbery little heart, and the stench of formaldehyde.

He had stuck his fingers into the aortas and made it beat. She had giggled, then demanded he let her try.

A wry smile crossed Pacifica’s face. She turned the heart once more, then gently slipped two fingers into the aortas. The ventricles were as cool and empty as those of that first pig’s heart.  Pacifica began pumping her fingers. The cold organ twitched in her hands.

Idly, she looked up at the corpse. Alex Sanders hadn’t been a good man by any stretch of the word, but to die like this? It must have been so, so… divine.

Pacifica suddenly wished she was in his place.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Miss Northwest?”

“J-just a moment, Claude,” she called, voice unsteady. She quickly dropped the heart and stood, trying in vain to brush away the fluids congealing in her dress, but only smearing them further. “Actually, can you, uh, give me a while alone in here? And send for Dipper Pines, please. He’s, uh, left a personal item in here.” Her eyes fell to what were clearly cum stains a few feet away. Yes, yes he had.

“Certainly.” Retreating footsteps.

Pacifica breathed a relieved sigh. She walked to her favorite armchair, the one that faced the _memento mori_ beside the hall door. However close she and Wendy were, there was no way she was going to make Wendy clean this mess up. Pacifica bit her lip. Wendy always said these things didn’t bother her, but Pacifica could tell late at night, when they would drink together: after one too many, Wendy would get that faraway look and start mumbling about the withered way a half-dried organ feels.

Her heart ached suddenly, now not in pain for her own disgusting sins, but for Wendy’s silent fear. No, she couldn’t add to that. For once, Cipher and Pines would be cleaning up their own mess.


End file.
